Anywhere else, this theme bar would be deserted at ten in the morning. But this is the Paradise Islands, and few (if any) bars ever truly close here. The crowd is sparse, consisting of a handful of locals taking in a relatively late morning meal, mixed with a few tourists doing much the same. Among the latter crowd is a red-haired young woman in pink and black, seated at a back corner table over an empty plate and a half-full glass of something clear, with an aroma suggestive of coconuts.

Subject: Trixie Mackenzie, rogue F.B.C. Mother was an Umbrella researcher killed cleanly and carefully, father was a STARS officer, assassinated by Albert Wesker to solve problems that Grammercy is not privvy to. He would suspect the murder of Trixie's mother, but that leaves out the detail of why Trixie was brought under Wesker's wing as an FBC operative. Wesker has always been a loose cannon, but Chuck isn't paid to think about cobwobs, he's paid to kill spiders. In fact, these days, Chuck isn't paid anything at all. Responsibility, purpose, pride, that's all Charles Grammercy needs, and if that means taking the occasional boonies contract for a Danish transnational PMC, that's about the size of it. He'll call the work for Umbrella an abbot's hobby.

Trixie's raw profile indicates that she's naturally suspicious, with the business her maternal role model was involved in, and the opposition factor of having a STARS officer as the paternal guardianship of the female psyche. The murder of her parents would create a paranoid factor to a profile that would otherwise be a natural elite police operative, placing her under Wesker's control if he chose. And he chose, meaning she's either good, or convenient.

And she's got blackmail on Wesker, despite not being in the morgue team. She's damned good.

Grammercy walked into the bar wearing a three piece suit, with a pair of standard issue European diplomat sunglasses on, often seen in the tropics but rarely around here. He's got a Europol badge in clear display, stopping in the door and his eyes scanning across the bar. He spots Trixie from her dossier profile provided by the spook operatives inside FBC that survived the disbanding procedure and needed a little cash to hole up somewhere safe. Having the remains of a vast multinational conspiracy as friends pays.

Trixie glances up as another shadow crosses the door. Squinting slightly at the glare around the man's frame, she takes in the suit, sunglasses, and badge with a faint frown, then looks back to her drink. At least, her posture suggests that she looks back to her drink. Her eyes, however, remain largely on the newcomer. Not like you see many people in suits here, let alone carrying badges. She makes no movement of greeting, being in no mood to call attention to herself.

Grammercy's eyes linger on Trixie far too long, his jaw muscles slowly squeezing as he sees the combination of pink and black the debutante turned soldier wears. Far too long for his hunt, far too long for her comfort, and far too long for the other patrons of the bar. His left hand slowly moves into a fist, right hand motionless, before he moves away, his cover removed. Not even a police officer's gesture, or a spy, but one of a whiskey priest in a gin bar just about to reach freedom before a last drink amid his pursuers. He moves to the bar, sliding a black Visa card registered to a travel services company in Belgium, across the counter. "I'll take a seltzer and cranberry," he says, his voice having the odd sense of artificial parch. His throat grasps itself as he forces a gulp to break the quiet stare of the bartender, tipping his head to the side to watch Trixie. He's gauging her reactions now, seeing if she's going to make a deal with international authorities with her purloined revelation from the jungles of Bolivar.

The bartender, a pretty young woman with unmistakeable Hispanic roots, silently mixes the requested drink and passes it over, arcing an eyebrow at the newcomer as she turns to deal with her next customer.

Trixie watches the newcomer as steadily as she can without lifting her head. It's a tricky business, as he's barely inside her field of view when he finally approaches the bar. Only once he has his drink does she rise and move to the bar, her stormy eyes resting firmly on him.

"I hope you aren't trying to blend in," she says softly, pitching her voice low enough that anyone farther away than arms' reach would have a rough time hearing her, "'cause it's not working very well. Something on your mind?" she asks, a hint of wariness in her tone.

"I'm not supposed to blend in," Grammercy says as he keeps his eyes down, sipping the drink with a conspicuous sip of his hard-locked lips. "It's why they don't pay me the big bucks." He sets down his drink, feeling the soothing cool on his wet fingertips, the tropical clime not agreeing with his Scandinavian-British genetic sensibilities.

Trixie has already demonstrated the first danger sign of an informer. She's approached an agent of a large national (or above) level body, despite being in danger of arrest.

"It's not my mind I'm here for, Miss. It's your mind." He looks up at her, tipping his chin upwards, pursing his lower lip against his mouth with a narrow of his cheeks. "Or, more appropriately, what's inside it."

"What's inside my head? I'm not sure I'm following you. Maybe you'd better clarify," Trixie replies, that wariness in her tone slightly more pronounced. Her eyes remain on him, save for an occasional glance at the doorway. "Kind of a long way from home, aren't you?" she asks, studying his badge.

Grammercy's badge is a Europol (the European Union's police arm) standard issue, with the rank 'INSPECTOR' and the name 'LANDA' printed on it.

"I'm a member of Europol. I'm hunting a dangerous criminal that has been recently disavowed from his government." His voice is low and has a deadly quiet quality to it, as he reaches up and removes his sunglasses, setting them on the counter beside his drink.

Grammercy's eyes move with his head to look Trixie straight in hers. "Tell me, Miss Mackenzie. What do you know about Albert Wesker?"

There's a tension in his voice that indicates he's testing her, although the razor's blade in his jaw's tightness makes the implied consequence of honesty dissonant with his assumed role, and question.

"Guess that explains that hairy eyeball you were giving me." Trixie shrugs, a wry, bittersweet smile touching her lips, then fading, as she gestures to her previously-occupied table and moves to return to her seat. "Have a seat. I don't feel like standing here half the morning."

Grammercy picks up his sunglasses, sliding them into a suit pocket, before he picks up his seltzer and cranberry juice. "Of course, Miss Mackenzie." He slowly strolls to Trixie's table, before taking a seat and taking a long sip of the mixer, very aware of the heat.

Trixie seems less bothered by the heat, though not unaware of it. "Albert Wesker... Raccoon City PD, S.T.A.R.S. commander, and lately a Colonel in the F.B.C., known for wearing cool shades and having a demeanor that totally matches them. /Totally/," she replies, taking a slow sip of her drink. "Also one of the two-legged rats responsible for the Raccoon City Outbreak, specifically keeping the information from the public, the police, and his own officers in S.T.A.R.S., for the purpose of testing some of the first B.O.W.'s on unwitting victims who both could and could not fight back. Likely also murdered my father, but I can't prove it."

Grammercy listens slowly, looking into his drink but keenly aware. It doesn't seem like he's showing any sign of emotion, other then a suppressed ire for Trixie, instead of Wesker. "I see," he says, quietly. He lifts his drink and looks at Trixie for a long, hard while, taking a deep drink of his non-alcoholic cocktail. "We could use your testimony, against him, or any of his associates. Would you like to testify?" he asks, his glass in his hand as he watches you carefully, with his brown eyes, smoldering with resentment.

Grammercy's profiling was correct, he surmises. The international law enforcement act has given him a level of paternal respect.

"Wonderful. I have a small aircraft waiting at the airport. We'll take you to Utrecht first, then to the Hague, where we'll put you in a safehouse when we capture him." A sadistic urge comes over him, watching that small smile. "We don't want any of Wesker's friends hurting you, do we, darling," he says, as a grin breaks across his face. His teeth are white, too white. He's had them capped.

Trixie's smile wavers the slightest bit, but she nods energetically. "I am /so/ in... can I stop by a friend's house first? I need to tell him I won't be cluttering up his guest room anymore," she says, moving to pick up her bulky (and very pink) purse, settled in the seat beside her. She draws it up onto the edge of the table, moving to push it onto the tabletop, but the bottom catches on the edge of the table, causing it to tip away from her, spilling the remains of her drink. The coconut-scented liquid runs across the tabletop, straight toward the Europol man's lap!

"Oh, no... no-no-no-no, /don't/..." the redhead cries, reaching for the glass too late, causing the purse to tip and fall back off the table with a heavy thud and the soft clatter of a few items falling to the floor.

"/Dammit/! Ohmigawd, I'm /so/ sorry! I'm such a total klutz sometimes..." she all but babbles, ducking down in her seat to retrieve the purse.

Grammercy gets a lap full of drink and jolts backwards as the table up ends towards him, falling out of his chair as the table hits him. He sprawls out across the floor, an analyst despite being an excellent athlete and trained soldier, beholden to the life of an office rat. "F***!" he curses, turning into his side and letting his slick black hair hang over his face, temporarily shocked out of his manipulations.

Trixie stands, too, but more slowly and deliberately, her purse filling one hand and held out before her. The other is hidden by the purse, but the posture of her hand and wrist suggests gripping a gun that is pointed at him through the body of the purse. "Don't. Fucking. Move..." she says, her voice soft and heavy with menace.

"Call the police. Right now," she says toward the bartender. "This man just tried to kidnap me."

A low, soft chuckle comes out of Grammercy, as he looks sidelong at Trixie from his position on the ground. "Kidnap you?" he says lightly, smiling. "I wasn't going to kidnap you." His arm snaps around and a Derringer springs out of his sleeve, the field analyst catching it in his hand. He discharges a single bullet of the two-round clip as his finger depresses the trigger with a practiced burst, aiming at the ceiling above her. Still, it's quite loud, and there's a substantial muzzle flash. He twists around and presses his left hand on the ground as he shoves himself up to a sprint, dashing into the kitchen and shoving a terrified cook aside as he makes his escape.

Trixie ducks instinctively as the gun comes up, not realizing that he's aiming above her head. By the time she regains her balance and her bearings, her assailant is gone, but the commotion in the bar remains. She hurries into the kitchen, but by the time she gets to the back door, the menacing suit is out of sight.

"/Bastard/..." she whispers, walking back into the bar. Nothing to do now but wait for the police and do her civic duty. And possibly plan another place to disappear.